


Stranger in the Mirror

by shinymailbox



Series: something new [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Friendship, Gen, Ingrid/Glenn is present but the nature of their relationship is complicated, Mostly Gen, They love and care for eachother but it might not fully be romantic, Why Did I Write This?, friendship fluff, in like one sitting, this isn’t angst until you think about what happens to all of these characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-11-02 03:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20613320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinymailbox/pseuds/shinymailbox
Summary: Ingrid attends a ball in Fhirdiad. She doesn’t know what it’s for, she feels out of her element, and she’s a little nervous, but the presence of four of her best friends really helps.(Pre-canon, pre-Tragedy of Duscur.)





	Stranger in the Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy welcome to the longest thing I’ve ever written courtesy of me having to stay home from school today for the first time in like 4 years ‘cause I’m sick. also idk why I wrote a 3k fic about a character that’s far from my favorite either

Ingrid, as the heiress of House Galatea, is no stranger to formal events. In her thirteen years of life, she has become accustomed to the extravagance of balls and weddings. And although she is used to dressing up and sitting pretty, she’d never say that she liked it.

Count Galatea - Ingrid’s father - had bought this new emerald-green dress for this occasion, and Ingrid found herself staring at it in her bedroom mirror. It is tighter up top than she is used to, but the skirt flows and nearly cascades down to the floor of her chamber. The sleeves are long and made entirely of green lace, and the neckline is high and very lacy as well. It is a beautiful dress, Ingrid admits, and yet it seems wasted on a girl like her. Ingrid sighs, running her fingers through her long blonde hair, and sits, exhausted, on her bed. Her eyes gravitate towards the pretty little heeled shoes her father had supplied for her for tonight’s ball, silver things that shone in the light. She decides not to put them on right now, instead staring at the ceiling and letting herself become lost in thought.

A maid knocks at the door. “Lady Ingrid, may I enter?” she asks, and Ingrid is snapped out of her daydreaming. She knows what this is for, and she is dreading it, but she opens the door for the maid carrying a bag of makeup anyway. At least Father was kind enough to ask the maid closest to Ingrid for this task, a young adult woman from the eastern part of Galatea territory named Hanna.

Ingrid leads Hanna into her room with a sigh, sitting down again on the bed and facing the mirror. Hanna kneels a bit in front of her, digging in the bag for the correct type of makeup (as if Ingrid doesn’t think that all cosmetics look the same.)

Hanna lets out a noise of accomplishment once she digs out the tin of pink powder and a small brush. She dips the brush in the powder and brings it up to Ingrid’s face, laughing as she moves back a little and closes her eyes before the blush even brushes her cheek. “Just get it over with, Hanna,” Ingrid scolds, her lips pursed in a tight line and her face still slightly turned away as the young woman dusts her cheeks with pink.

“Is that all?” Ingrid asks, once her cheeks are sufficiently rosy, and Hanna shakes her head. “There’s a bit more to go, so hang in there,” she says with a smile that is supposed to be reassuring but just comes off as awkward. The next piece of makeup is for her eyebrows, and Ingrid struggles to keep still as Hanna darkens them with practiced ease. This amount of makeup and preparation is more than Ingrid has ever done for an event in the past. She’s feeling more and more like a young noblewoman by the second, and she is not entirely sure she’s fond of the feeling. 

All that’s left is a little color on her lips, just barely a tint and nothing like the bright reds the older noblewomen love to don. “You look like a fine young lady,” Hanna comments, in a tone that’s a little too formal and mildly mocking yet with a dash of complete sincerity. Ingrid’s face in the mirror barely registers as her own. 

The thought of Glenn seeing her like this crosses her mind as she stares into her familiar jade green eyes, and she cannot tell anymore if the red on her cheeks is natural or artificial. Hanna catches on, ever perceptive of Ingrid’s feelings. “Don’t worry, I think he’ll love it,” she says, grinning at Ingrid while she packs up her extensive makeup collection and leaves the room. “Oh, by the way, you should probably go to see your father,” is added to Hanna’s sentence before she’s out of Ingrid’s earshot.

“Sure,” Ingrid muses to nobody in particular, finally slipping on the heels her father supplied. They are awkward and a bit tight, and Ingrid does not appreciate the way she wobbles slightly when she tries to take a step outside her room in them. She keeps her hand to the walls of the hallway and she grabs tightly to the handrails of the staircase, terrified of tripping and messing up her carefully done makeup and dirtying the dress her father had bent over backwards to buy. When she meets her father in the entrance to the Galatea residence, he is in formal clothing and his eyes are wide with affection for his daughter.

“You look quite beautiful, my Ingrid,” Count Galatea says with a smile, warm eyes softening the tension and worry in Ingrid’s face. “Truly, I do not know what I did to become blessed with such an incredible daughter,” he muses, his head turning away slightly yet his face still smiling from eyes to mouth, his hand reaching out to pat Ingrid on the shoulder. “Our carriage is waiting outside. Are you ready?”

“I am, Father,” she replies. 

—

The ride to Fhirdiad isn’t very long. Count Galatea takes Ingrid’s hand and leads her out of the carriage and into a sea of unfamiliar noble faces in the castle garden. He twists around to thank the carriage driver, who nods and motions for his horse to gallop away. Kingdom nobles turn somewhat to look at her as she walks by, holding her father’s hand while wobbling every step of the way to the castle gates. They look to her, then to her father, and then back to her before turning back to gossip amongst themselves. Ingrid is unsure if she wants to know what they are saying, and so she resolves to simply look ahead unflinching until she can almost step into the palace.

“Good evening, Count Galatea,” says the royal servant waiting at the gates to Fhirdiad Castle with a slight bow. “His Majesty has been waiting for you.”

“I’m quite flattered,” her father openly admits. The servant looks down at the awkward teenager beside her father, looking so much like a woman but never more like a girl at the same time. He smiles. “And His Highness will surely be happy to see you, Lady Ingrid.” Ingrid’s shoulders drop a little - she was unaware she’d been tensing them so much- at the reminder that her friends, familiar faces, would be also in attendance. The corners of her lips turn up a little when she wonders who will be more relieved upon the sight of each other: her or Prince Dimitri.

The servant leads them through the gates and the wide open entrance hall, into the gigantic royal ballroom. “Thank you,” Ingrid tells the servant in unison with her father. The first familiar face she sees is not Dimitri, however. It’s Sylvain, and Ingrid finds herself sighing once the Gautier heir catches sight of her too. He motions for her to join him. “Father, I am going to speak with Sylvain,” she states, letting go of her father’s hand and only beginning to walk towards the red-headed  
boy when her father nods in reply.

“Hey, Ingrid, you need help walking there?” Sylvain asks once he notices how she is unsteady on her feet. “I’m fine, Sylvain, thank you very much,” she impatiently retorts, hating the fact that she has to look up to see the Gautier boy’s face now. He had certainly shot up in height, recently, and he’d grown a bit taller than even Glenn (a topic which quickly became sore for Ingrid’s harsh fiancé.)

Sylvain looks formal yet just as effortlessly laid back as always. “Anyway, Ingrid, you look, like, really pretty tonight, you know that?” He leans back against a sliver of wall between two windows, and Ingrid can’t deny the coolness he radiates.

“I’m aware, Sylvain.” She does not tell him that she had stood in front of her mirror in her chamber before arriving, staring through her made-up face. She doesn’t tell him that the face that stared back at her looked like a stranger. He already knows she’s out of her element.

“Confident, eh? I mean, I would be too. You clearly did a lot in order to look-“ Sylvain pauses, “like that,” he continues, gesturing to Ingrid’s body. She feels his eyes boring holes into her and she blushes, hoping the artificial dusting of red on her cheeks covers it up. “Glenn is such a lucky man tonight,” the red headed boy sighs.

“Do you happen to know where Glenn is?” Ingrid asks, desperate for company that wasn’t only her lecherous ginger friend. She liked him when they were hanging out as a group, but she couldn’t say the same for when she was alone speaking to him. 

“Think I saw your man somewhere over there,” Sylvain supplies, gesturing off somewhere to Ingrid’s right. She does not comment on the way he calls Glenn “her man.” 

“Come look for him with me, then,” Ingrid asks, though to Sylvain it’s more of a demand. She grabs his wrist and he laughs, laid-back as ever. “I’m coming, I’m coming, ‘Grid-“ a chuckle escapes his lips, “-geez, you’re so impatient!”

Ingrid purses her lips. Oh, you know why, she thinks. Sylvain knows that she doesn’t want to stay with only him for the night. He also knows that she’s been itching to have a dance with Glenn since she was informed of the ball almost a month ago. He knows a lot about her, honestly.

The pair of teenagers weave through the dancers, avoiding very crowded spaces and surveying the area, looking for any sign of Ingrid’s navy-haired fiancé. They are almost to the opposite corner of the room when Sylvain squeezes Ingrid’s hand for her attention. “He’s over there,” he points.

Ingrid has seen Glenn in formalwear many times, before, and she honestly thinks knight armor is Glenn’s best look, but she still finds her eyes glued to her fiancé. Letting go of Sylvain’s hand, she walks carefully over to Glenn.

She’s so close to him when her ankle twists and she gasps, bracing to hit the floor. Except— Ingrid doesn’t fall, and her fiancé’s sword arm is on her waist. She feels her face growing hot.

“Thank you, Glenn,” she mutters, earning a chuckle from the teenager in question. “Nice to see you too, In.” With Glenn’s help, she rises to her feet again, steadier this time. The young noble who was conversing with Glenn looks at him confusedly. “I thought I told you about Ingrid,” he says, looking incredulous. “She’s my fiancée.”

Ingrid smiles sheepishly at the nobleman, smoothing out the skirt of her emerald dress. The man’s eyes flit from Ingrid to Glenn to Ingrid and back to Glenn again, no doubt wondering why a knightly, crest-bearing heir like Glenn would be betrothed to a girl who looked three years younger and far from the picture of noble elegance even in a gown and fashionable makeup. Neither Glenn nor Ingrid bothers to explain their situation to him.

“Ah. In that case, let me introduce myself. I’m Harris Michel Kleiman, second son of House Kleiman.” He bows.

Ingrid returns the bow, and Harris is almost taken aback by this, expecting her to curtsy or something more befitting of a noblewoman. “Ingrid Brandl Galatea, heiress of House Galatea.” She ignores Glenn when he elbows her in the side just a little and mutters, “Hey, In, you’re getting good at that.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Galatea.” Harris does not say much afterwards, and Ingrid sighs in relief to herself once he’s pulled away by whom she could only assume to be another son of Kleiman. She looks to Glenn again, hoping to finally converse with him.

“Oh, Ingrid, thank god,” comes a voice from behind her, and she and Glenn turn their heads to see Sylvain (looking exasperated) and Felix trailing not far behind. “I thought I’d be stuck with Felix forever.” (Felix looked quite disheartened at his comment; Ingrid found herself likening her fiancé’s slightly younger brother to a kicked puppy.) 

“How did you even lose me? It’s not that crowded in here,” Ingrid questions.

“Felix saw me and he jumped at the chance. I had to fight to get back to you.” Ingrid hopes that he didn’t literally fight off Felix.

“He’s lying. I asked him to show me where you were,” Felix corrects impatiently. “I had to convince him to come over here because he’s scared of Brother.” Felix snorts a little at the idea. It is absolutely adorable. 

“Wonder why,” Glenn says, letting out a laugh not unlike the snort Felix had just a moment before. Ingrid can truly see that they’re brothers.

Looking up at her fiancé with a smile, Ingrid gives her two cents. “He can’t flirt with me when you’re around, Glenn.” 

“Wh-what? Ooooof course not, Ingrid!” he says defensively, confirming to Ingrid that yes, she’s hit the nail on the head. Both Felix and Glenn are looking at their redheaded friend with suspicion and disbelief evident in their eyes. “And I’m NOT scared of Glenn,” he adds. The Fraldarius siblings’ expressions don’t change with that addition.

After a while of uncomfortable silence, Sylvain pipes up, clearly uncomfortable with his friends’ eyes burning into his very soul. “You know, I’d say we’re all here, but there’s one person missing.”

“Dimitri, right?” Ingrid asks. She mentally berates herself for forgetting all about the prince. She and the rest of his friends had been off talking to each other, ignoring him and leaving him to be trapped in boring conversations with boring nobles hoping to gain the favor of the young future king.

“I saw him earlier,” says Felix. “He was standing right next to His Majesty.”

“He looked like a lost little girl,” Glenn muses with a little laugh. He turns to Felix. “Maybe you should go for his hair the next time you’re sparring with him. He could really use a haircut.”

Sylvain laughs loud, loud enough for most of the nearby nobles to hear, but if they do, they don’t comment. Ingrid elbows her fiancé in the ribs with a medium amount of force. 

“Okay, okay, In, I’ll be nice to His Highness.” Ingrid smiles. Glenn can be rude, and that is certain, but Ingrid must admit she finds him refreshing for just that. “If we want to say hello to him, His Majesty’s right over there, and the little prince is probably still right next to him.”  
Glenn begins walking towards the place he had indicated, three younger teenagers trailing behind him.

His Majesty is surrounded by many nobles, and Ingrid recognizes Lord Rodrigue talking to the king like an old friend, both of them tuning out the other people crowding around them. Sure enough, Prince Dimitri is standing awkwardly next to his father, stuck in a one-sided conversation with an overly enthusiastic nobleman. His eyes light up when he peers around the nobleman and notices his friends pushing through the crowd towards him. 

Though she can’t make out what he is saying from this distance, Ingrid imagines he is trying to wrap up his “conversation” with the nobleman. He walks a little closer to his friends, straying a bit from his father’s side. King Lambert turns his head a little, slightly alarmed since Dimitri hadn’t moved from his spot at his side the entire night, but his expression turns soft once he sees his son beaming at the sight of the friends he cares about. “I was waiting for all of you,” explains the prince with a relieved smile. He wastes no time in catching up with each one of them, eager to escape the gazes of noblemen hoping to gain his favor. And although Glenn turns to Ingrid and rolls his eyes once Dimitri begins talking to him, Ingrid knows that deep down, they are all happy to be together now, familiar faces in a sea of unknowns.

——

There is no dancing until later into the night. 

Ingrid has danced with every one of her friends, so far.

Sylvain was a decent dancer, never stepping on Ingrid’s already sore-from-heels feet, but his hand started out a small amount above the small of her back and ended up quite a bit lower. Ingrid was relieved when the song had ended for fear of how low his hand could get if the music continued. She’d probably resort to slapping him.

Felix’s dancing skills were awful. It was painfully clear that he had never stepped foot on a dance floor in his life. Despite the constant stepping on toes and missteps and bumping into others, Felix remained determined to dance with her until the end of the song. Ultimately, dancing with Felix had been an exciting experience Ingrid does not wish to repeat.

Dimitri was— obviously practiced. Ingrid was not very surprised at this. He was the crown prince; crown princes must be educated in all sorts of things, and ballroom dancing was evidently one of them. It was a pleasant dance, all in all, but when Ingrid looked at Dimitri’s eyes, she knew he was seeing someone else in Ingrid’s place.

Her final dance of the night approached. Standing in front of her now is Glenn Fraldarius, first son and heir of Rodrigue Fraldarius, Knight of the Royal Guard, her friend, her betrothed.

“I hate how pushy noblewomen don’t let up even after they learn I’ve got a fiancee,” Glenn sighs, looking at her and for once Ingrid knows he sees her; she doesn’t feel his eyes, his gaze, burning her. “Were your dance partners at least better than mine?”

“Yes, except for your brother,” Ingrid comments, looking up at Glenn as he laughed at the idea. “That’s to be expected of Felix,” he shrugs, still smiling.

The violins of the next song begin. Glenn takes her hand with his own, not caring how calloused her palms are from wielding lances and sparring. His sword hand rests on the small of her back, strong and supportive just where she is comfortable with it. She looks up at him, and his eyes are positively sparkling with mischief and a boyish sense of competition.

“Not to brag, In, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the best dance partner you’ll have all night. Maybe ever.” Ingrid’s heart swells, and the admiration she feels there for Glenn Fraldarius, his strength and his boldness and his knighthood, is a feeling she finds hard to distinguish from love.

The dance begins, and Ingrid wants this ball, this moment, to last forever.

**Author's Note:**

> intsys I’m begging you please show us what Glenn looked like. I’m begging.
> 
> I wrote this in one sitting, in like two hours. I’m sick and home alone. I read over it like once. Please bear with me if it’s shit.
> 
> (Also, for timeline’s sake, this fic takes place after Edelgard leaves Fhirdiad, and a few months before the Tragedy of Duscur.)


End file.
